


i live with bread like you

by boccardo_syllogism



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Domestic, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boccardo_syllogism/pseuds/boccardo_syllogism
Summary: A key duty of any second-in-command is to facilitate situations so that his superior is able to complete any task as efficiently as possible. When Inspector Robinson is unexpectedly injured while Miss Fisher is off flying her father to England, Hugh steps up with Dottie and Mr. Butler's help to see him safely through his recovery.It's a little more complicated than he expects.[A Hugh POV study of his and Jack's relationship. Written before the movie was released, so no spoilers.]
Relationships: Hugh Collins & Jack Robinson, Hugh Collins/Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 43
Kudos: 111





	i live with bread like you

**Author's Note:**

> Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood  
> With solemn reverence: throw away respect,  
> Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,  
> For you have but mistook me all this while:  
> I live with bread like you, feel want,  
> Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,  
> How can you say to me, I am a king?  
> -William Shakespeare, _Richard II_

“I don’t care if your manly pride forbids it, Robinson,” Doctor Macmillan says as Hugh ducks back into the inspector's office with a length of cloth to use as a sling. “You’re going to the hospital. You were seconds from passing out when I arrived for Thursday drinks - I'll be damned if I let you just swan off home.”

“I’ll be fine,” Inspector Robinson says curtly, attempting to push himself to his feet. The effort turns his face a ghastly shade of grey that Hugh has only seen before on men who have very recently been shot, and he hurries to help the inspector settle back on his chair.

“Are you done? Or would you like to test my stitches even further?”

“If someone could give me a lift home, I can recover perfectly well there,” he manages, remarkably evenly, though the ragged edges in his voice give away exactly how much pain he’s in.

“Nonsense. Someone needs to mind those injuries - _not_ you - and unless I’m very much mistaken, Inspector, you live alone.”

Hugh fidgets with the braid on his sleeve. He knows, really he does, that in no time at all Inspector Robinson will be back on his rounds, fully healed and working late as ever to make sure every detail is accounted for. But it’d been close tonight - he’s seen his fair share of raids, but never one so bloody. If the inspector had been two seconds slower, or a foot to the right….

Inspector Robinson shuts his eyes, visibly controlling his breathing. “Not the hospital,” he manages. “Please, Doctor. If at all possible…”

Doctor Macmillan’s expression changes from exasperated impatience to troubled understanding in a second, and Hugh is quite forcibly reminded that the two people in front of him had served in the Great War. He’s a bit too young to remember most of it, but he does remember the aftermath. Cousin Teddy coming back all quiet and jumpy when before he’d used to swing Hugh up onto his shoulders and parade up and down the street when he got home from work. Mrs. Mulcahy next door never wearing anything but black after losing both her sons. The barbershop down the street closing down after Mr. Clarke got shipped home in a wheelchair.

“I wouldn’t insist if it wasn’t necessary, Jack,” Doctor Macmillan says, subdued. “You really do need someone to make sure that wound doesn’t get infected.”

And suddenly, Hugh knows exactly how he can help.

“You could come stay with me, sir.”

Both of them startle like they’d forgotten he was there, but Hugh’s too pleased with his plan to mind. Miss Fisher had cheerfully bullied the Collinses into staying at her house while she was in England, and surely Inspector Robinson would be more comfortable in a place he already knew well. “Me and Dottie wouldn’t mind a bit, and Mr. Butler will be happy to see you at Wardlow again. I’m sure between the three of us we can get you fit as a fiddle in no time.”

The inspector stares at him. Hugh’s used to watching those eyes take in every detail of a crime scene, but it’s a little unnerving having all that focus on him. “Are you sure, Collins? It’s not necessary-”

“Sounds like it is, sir,” Hugh says firmly, reddening after a second once he realizes he’s interrupted his boss. “Er, I mean-”

“That sounds perfect, Constable Collins,” the doctor interrupts, shooting the inspector an extremely pointed glare. “You should telephone Mr. Butler and let him know to expect a guest.”

Hugh hurries off to do just that.

*****

Facing Inspector Robinson across a supper table is unexpectedly strange. Especially this particular supper table. Hugh has fond memories of many visits to Wardlow’s kitchen while he was courting Dottie, and he knows the inspector is no stranger to Mr. Butler’s cooking either, but their visits rarely coincided. Except for when it’s official police business, of course. But then again, official police business rarely takes place at supper. Not if Dottie has anything to say about it.

Still, it’s comfortable enough. Dottie and Mr. Butler’s conversation about the latest footy match between West and Carlton is entertaining to listen to, especially since he and Inspector Robinson have missed the last few Abbotsford matches with inconvenient work responsibilities. Hugh himself is too hungry after a long and exasperating day following up on witness statements for a hit-and-run last week to add much to the discussion. The inspector seems content with the occasional murmured thanks as dishes make their way around the table.

“Your Hobson is a piece of work off the field too,” Dottie continues. “From what I’ve heard, the closest he’ll ever come to attending Mass will be the day they start singing hymns in those jazz clubs.”

“Perhaps you ought to suggest that to Father Grogan,” Mr. Butler says, eyes twinkling.

Hugh laughs. “I don’t think so. The last thing we need is for old Mrs. Pettering to come after me with a broom yelling about - Sir, are you all right?”

“It’s fine.” Inspector Robinson doesn’t look up from his plate, carefully dividing a piece of potato in two with his good hand. The stony set to his jaw heavily implies that further attention will not be appreciated in the slightest. “What were you saying about your church?”

“Only that the organist doesn’t like me much,” Hugh answers after slightly too long of a pause, doing his best to sound as normal as possible. “She was hoping Dottie would settle down with her grandson.”

Dottie, bless her, follows his lead without a moment’s hesitation. “She’d have much better luck marrying Leonard off if anyone had bothered to teach him manners. Bert’s more polite than he is and I’ve caught him with muddy shoes propped up on the table more than once!”

Mr. Butler chimes in with news of the cabbies’ recent misadventure with an irate kookaburra trapped in the backseat of their motorcar. Between Hugh’s countering anecdote of a foul-mouthed parrot he’d encountered at a crime scene, general reminiscing about childhood encounters with magpies, and Dottie and Mr. Butler laughing their way through the tale of the chicken Cec and Bert had once won in a darts tournament, it’s not long before the mood at the table is cheerful once more. The next time Hugh sneaks a glance across the table, Inspector Robinson’s white-knuckled grip on his fork has relaxed considerably. He even manages a small smile while wishing the three of them a good night when supper is over.

It’s probably nothing. Quite a few constables were yawning through their shifts today after being up late dealing with the raid and its aftermath, and the inspector’s got to be feeling his wounds even if he doesn’t want to admit it. A nice bed is the best place for him right now while Hugh and Dottie tend to the washing-up.

But that flinch… 

“He’s very quiet, isn’t he?”

“He _is_ hurt, Dottie,” Hugh points out, feeling oddly defensive. It’s not that he isn’t worried about the inspector, especially after that uncharacteristically early departure. It’s just that… well, Inspector Robinson is always quiet. It would be _more_ worrying if injuries turned him into a chatterbox.

“I know, Hugh, but with Miss Phryne he seemed - different.”

“Different how?”

“I used to hear them laughing a lot, in the parlor.” Dottie hands him a plate, warm to the touch after being scrubbed. He’s been drying the dishes since he was old enough to not drop them but hot water just for chores is still such a novelty. “She asked him to play the piano sometimes.”

Hugh frowns at his dishcloth, trying to reconcile this with the Inspector Robinson he knows. He’s not sure he’s ever heard the man laugh.

“It’s not him being quiet that bothers me,” he says finally. “I don’t know what it is. I hope he’s just not feeling well.”

Dottie lays a soapy hand over his, eyes troubled. Above them, the floorboards of Wardlow’s guest room creak restlessly as its occupant begins to pace.

*****

Hugh comes home from his shift the next day to find Inspector Robinson sitting with Dottie in the parlour and holding yarn for her to wind into neat spheres.

“You’re very good at this,” Dottie tells him. “Hugh always starts to fidget before I get much done.”

The inspector glances furtively at him, ears turning red and so visibly bewildered that Hugh comes dangerously close to laughing out loud. “Better you than me, sir,” he says instead. “Hullo, Dottie.”

She beams at him, tilting her head up automatically for a kiss. That’s one of the nice things about being married, they’ve discovered - being able to greet each other at the end of every workday without having to make plans first, free from chaperoning eyes.

Hugh hesitates when he catches sight of the inspector’s shoe out of the corner of his eye.

It’s silly - Inspector Robinson has seen them kiss before. He was at their wedding, after all, and the party right after they’d sorted the engagement out, and Hugh had spotted him in Miss Fisher’s parlour a few times when he saw Dottie safely home after a date. But gosh, it’s been a while since he felt so much like a naughty schoolboy caught in the act. The inspector likes private lives kept private.

"Kiss your wife, Collins," the inspector says dryly, but Hugh knows amusement in that voice when he hears it. "I'll see about putting the kettle on."

So he does, and it's sweet as always and a bit of a relief after a long day. Dottie sighs, hand warm on the back of his neck, and peeks over his shoulder. "He seems better today," she whispers, “don’t you think?”

She’s right. Hugh kisses her again.

*****

The house is completely dark when Hugh finally drags his aching feet to the front door. Murder today - a stabbing not far from the street he’d grown up on. Hugh hadn’t known the victim, but when he’d gone with Inspector Aynesworth to notify the next of kin just as he would have done with Inspector Robinson, it had been hard not to flinch at the realization that the victim’s wife was one of his eldest sister’s school friends.

Not that his sister has spoken to him in months.

Hugh sucks in a harsh breath.

It’s almost eleven - Dottie will be asleep by now. Which is a good thing, he reminds himself. He’d telephoned hours ago to let her know he’d be home late and not to wait up, and he ought to be pleased that at least one of them will get a solid night’s rest. Even if Hugh sort of wants to nudge her awake just so he can crawl into her arms and take solace in a comforting touch. But he’s a grown man, so he won’t.

A moment to sit down, that’s all he needs, and the kitchen will do fine - that way he can take off his shoes so the stairs won’t creak. Hugh loosens the first few buttons on his uniform as he picks his way through the dark hallway. Avoid the telephone, then the potted plant he’s stubbed his toe on a dozen times on nights like this, and then the first doorknob on the left will be a closet but the second...

He opens the door to reveal Mr. Butler carefully applying arnica to some of the rapidly-purpling marks on Inspector Robinson’s bare chest.

For a second, all he can see is the inspector the way he'd looked when Dr. Macmillan had shouted for Hugh the night of the raid: glassy-eyed, barely responsive, blood dark red and malevolent in the glare of City South lighting. Then he blinks, and exhales. Inspector Robinson is alert and upright. The bandages across his ribs are brand new, the discarded ones at his side barely tinged with pink. And although there's an impressive amount of bruising around his collarbone and shoulder, it doesn't seem paralysed with pain anymore. The man in front of him may not be anywhere near fighting fit, but a few days have made a world of difference.

Even so, Hugh blinks again, just to be sure. Bruises, the barest peek of stitches on the back of his shoulder, bandaged ribs, all present and accounted for… and lower, an angry mess of faded scarring just above Inspector Robinson's right hip, disappearing below the waistband of his trousers.

“Sorry, sir,” Hugh says, feeling like he’s just been caught doing something awful and not knowing what else to do, but the inspector just waves away the apology.

“No harm done,” he says, pulling on a shirt and gingerly doing up the buttons. “But that, Collins, is why I’m not particularly fond of hospitals.”

“Was it… during the war, sir?” It feels rude, almost, to ask the question, but Inspector Robinson's eyes are watching him without any of the steely distance he normally uses when someone tries to pry. And it's rather nice to be sitting down at last to a familiar voice.

"In France." He does not elaborate further. Hugh doesn't press.

"We saved you a plate from supper, Hugh," Mr. Butler tells him. "Roast chicken and vegetables. I'll warm it in the oven and it'll be ready in a few minutes."

"I'm not hungry." Hugh rubs at his tired eyes. "Thanks, though. You didn't need to."

There is a long silence, in which Hugh forcibly steadies his breathing and exists only in his palms for a while. It's nice. He can't disappoint his own hands. The sound of Mr. Butler bidding them good night vaguely registers, and he mumbles some kind of response.

The sharp click of a glass thudding against the table jolts him back to full awareness.

"Drink this."

Hugh stares at the tumbler of undeniably expensive alcohol in surprise, then up at the inspector, whose eyes are stern but understanding.

He drains the whole thing in one go. Christ _almighty,_ but he hates whiskey.

Inspector Robinson refills it again without a word, hands it back to Hugh, and uses the table to push himself upright with a wince. The conversation is over, then. In a way, it's a bit of a relief - Hugh can't really muster the energy to focus as it is, even with the whiskey burn in his throat anchoring him more firmly to solid ground, and he tries his best to look competent in front of his boss. But he also doesn't really want to be alone.

"You know, I never read a word of Shakespeare before the war," the inspector says, almost off-handedly.

Despite himself, Hugh snorts. "I've heard you quote pages at a time of near everything he ever wrote, sir. That can't be true."

"No?" Inspector Robinson returns the bottle to its shelf. "I was about your age at the time, you know. Only thing in English at hand when I was laid up was a copy of the tragedies someone else had left behind, and - well. It was a distraction."

“Huh.” Hugh tries to picture the inspector twenty years younger in military uniform. He can’t quite manage it - Inspector Robinson has been a constant at City South longer than Hugh has been on the force, reserved and exacting and with little patience for fools, but a damned good copper for it nonetheless. It’s very odd to think that he was once not so different than Hugh himself - newly married, senior’s stripes, following a mentor of his own.

Then again, Hugh is more aware than most lately that anything people think is constant can change in the blink of an eye.

Or the slam of a childhood home's front door.

The whiskey tastes even worse the second time down. "Sir?"

"Mm?"

“Does it ever get… easier?”

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “No,” Inspector Robinson says, quiet and steady. “It doesn’t. The best thing you can do is keep going and hold your loved ones close when you can.”

Hugh closes his eyes. Sometimes he wishes the inspector would tell him a reassuring lie or two, but they both know that will never happen and in the morning Hugh will be grateful for it.

“Get some sleep, Collins.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

It’s another half hour before he makes it up the stairs, shoes in hand. The bedroom door doesn’t creak - of course it doesn’t, neither Dottie nor Mr. Butler would stand for such a thing - but he opens it slowly anyway, trying to let Dottie sleep. Not that the effort is necessary, apparently: she’s sitting up in bed, adorable in her white nightclothes, and knitting what appears to be a sock by candlelight.

“You’re home!”

“You’re awake,” Hugh says stupidly.

“Yes,” Dottie agrees, eyebrows rising at whatever expression is on his face. He doesn’t know anymore. “Are you all right?”

Sod being a grown man. Hugh buries his face in his wife’s shoulder and tries not to let the tears fall too obviously when she strokes the back of his head.

*****

It's not easy, Hugh's found. Being a husband.

A sweetheart - simple enough, really. Finding the girl is the hard part, but once he met Dottie, all he really needed to do was treat her right and make her smile. It hadn't been perfect, but they fit together as well as anyone could hope for.

(He wasn’t a very good fiancé, but he’s got the rest of their lives together to make up for that.)

Being a husband is a lot more work. Living together is wonderful, and part of him still can't help lighting up every time she enters a room, but he still feels like a guest in a place Dottie is used to thinking of as home. His beautiful, darling wife snores like a train and has no appreciation for a good lie-in on the few days off he gets.

But Hugh _is_ learning. He's noticed that Dottie's baking varies with her mood: biscuits tend to appear when she's happy, bread when she's deep in thought, and scones when she's irritated. He knows that she works herself into a jittery mess of anxiety if she isn't sure what to do, but he also knows that once there is a plan for her to follow, she will finish the job and God help anyone standing in her way. Most of the time she doesn’t need anything from him but support, but exactly how to do that is tricky. Sometimes what Dottie wants is to be gently pointed in the right direction and set loose, and other times she just wants to be held and reassured. There are probably other things too, but those ones seem to work most of the time, and he’s figuring it out as he goes.

Being a husband is complicated and confusing, but here they are, months after their wedding day, and Hugh loves her more than he could have possibly imagined when he said his vows. If it was easy being a sweetheart, willing to put up with his mates' teasing if it meant another glimpse of his girl, it is so, so much more satisfying to be a husband who gets to see his wife every hour of every day as herself, rather than the proper young lady a good Christian courtship demanded. It amazes him sometimes that he’d never noticed how constrained she’d always been before, how passive - Hugh had just thought that’s what all nice young ladies were meant to be like. And that’s true. But if his own nice young lady is any indication, it’s not at all who they actually _are._

So they’re learning, albeit slowly, to talk to each other and share what they’re feeling. It’s hard for Hugh - all his life, he’s been told that men have to keep their emotions in control, and none more so than the police. But the last time he tried to handle things himself, he nearly lost Dottie and his job all in one go, and it’s only Inspector Robinson’s intervention that kept him from destroying his entire life. And really, it's difficult for Dottie too, he can tell. Being around things that remind her of Miss Fisher seems to help, though, and no matter how uncomfortable it feels for both of them, it's worth it. They're better when they work together.

Which is exactly why it's bothering Hugh that nothing they do for Inspector Robinson seems to help for more than a day at a time.

*****

"Finished digging out the stump," Hugh says, wiping sweat off his forehead. "D'you mind if I sit?"

"Not at all,” Mr. Butler replies. “I’d be glad of the company. There’s a fresh pitcher of orange juice if you’d like to cool off.”

Hugh pours himself a glass and settles at the table, enjoying the gloriously cool air in the house. Thank goodness it didn’t get this blisteringly hot until his day off, because even the thought of wearing his wool uniform outside today is horrifying. Everyone else in the house was clever enough to stay inside in the shade, but Hugh only gets the rare day off and someone had to get rid of that young tree after it was struck by lightning in last week’s storm.

The only bad part about being inside is that now he doesn’t have physical activity to keep himself occupied.

"Is there something on your mind, Hugh?" Mr. Butler asks gently, and Hugh shifts in his seat.

"Have I done the right thing, Mr. Butler?" The question has been weighing on him ever since that morning at the breakfast table, and Hugh - not normally a man to agonize over past decisions - feels uncomfortably like he's failed in a case he didn't even know he was trying to solve. "Asking the inspector here, that is."

Mr. Butler puts down the cutlery he's polishing and watches him for a long moment. "Why do you ask?"

Hugh shrugs helplessly. "I didn't really think about it much when I offered, just… he needed help, and all of us like him, and I thought it'd be nice to be taken care of in a familiar place. But he's miserable, isn't he? And not just because he's hurt, either - I know what he's like under the weather, and he just gets grumpy and tired. It's because he's _here."_

Mr. Butler inclines his head, deep in thought.

"I really thought I was helping," Hugh mumbles, thinking of all the times he'd seen the inspector so at ease while at Wardlow. It isn't like he's uncomfortable at the station, but it's different: on the job, Inspector Robinson is a man secure in his authority who speaks knowing his men will obey. But Miss Fisher treats him like an equal. Not an underling, like some of the rich folk they dealt with, and not an authority figure either, but… a friend.

It had seemed to do him good. Hugh had just wanted to bring him somewhere he was used to being someone other than a detective inspector, but it isn't working.

Maybe Hugh himself is the problem. It can't be easy for Inspector Robinson to recover with one of his constables constantly underfoot, no matter how well-meaning the constable is. Not that Hugh had given him much of a choice, really, which was stupid of him.

"I think you did the best thing that could be done at the time."

Well. That helps, a lot. He trusts Mr. Butler - the man has a quiet understanding with Inspector Robinson far more personal than Hugh’s. "Then why...?"

"A man named John Dryden," Mr. Butler says, choosing his words with obvious care, "once said, _'Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.'"_

Hugh watches as he returns to his polishing. It's the fancy set of silverware, the one that only ever gets used in the dining room when Miss Fisher has guests. It's been tucked away for quite some time; he and Dottie and Mr. Butler always eat in the kitchen, and there haven't been any guests until now. It's not their house, after all.

…...Oh.

*****

After a week, a doctor removes the inspector's stitches and declares him healed enough to return to desk duty and his own house. Not Doctor Macmillan this time - Dottie’s a little sad about that, he knows they’re fond of each other and haven’t had a chance to visit in a while - but the man seems competent enough. Hugh promises to keep an eye on Inspector Robinson at the station to make sure he isn’t overexerting himself, even though he can practically _hear_ the inspector trying not to roll his eyes.

To send him off, Dottie and Mr. Butler pack a hamper full to bursting with the best food they can manage between the two of them, which is saying something. Hugh's stomach starts to rumble as he drives the inspector home.

“Just here, Collins,” Inspector Robinson says, a bit out of breath from trying to hide his winces despite Hugh’s best attempts to keep the ride as smooth as possible. “The one on the right with the green door.”

"Close to the station," Hugh comments appreciatively. Wardlow to City South is a bit of a trek on foot. He and Dottie are hoping to find a place somewhere between the two, but their finances need a bit more saving up as it stands.

"It is, yes." The inspector gingerly levers himself out of the motorcar. "But there are other benefits."

“You’re back!” a young voice shouts, and Hugh turns around to find a scrawny boy who can’t be older than seven peering over the fence. The dog propped up on its hind legs next to him looks just as excited. “You’ve been gone for _ages!”_

Inspector Robinson grins at the boy, and to Hugh's surprise, it seems entirely sincere. “Hullo, Charlie. How’s Buster?”

“Mum’s real mad at him for knocking a pie off the table, but he didn’t mean to. Right, boy?” The dog barks happily, wagging its tail so ferociously its whole body shakes. “Not his fault Livvy kicked his ball.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” the inspector agrees. “Listen, can you run and fetch your mum for me?”

Eyes wide at being given such an important errand, Charlie sprints into the house next door shouting for his mother like the hounds of hell are at his heels instead of a scruffy little mutt.

Inspector Robinson just shakes his head fondly. "The Deacons have been looking after my house this week," he tells Hugh. "Though not all of them put quite so much energy into doing it."

A woman emerges from the house who reminds Hugh strongly of his Aunt Winnie: a comfortably plump figure, flyaway hair constantly escaping from its bun, and, as she trots up to them, a distinct smell of eucalyptus soap. “Jack!” she cries, kissing him on the cheek. “My word, you look a fright. Don’t suppose you want a dog?”

“Not that one.” They exchange a long-suffering look. “God knows the barking would only get worse if he wasn’t a foot from Charlie at all times.”

“Don’t remind me. Let’s get you inside, come along. And you’ve brought one of your constables! What’s your name, dear?”

Hugh startles. “Er, Collins, ma’am.”

To his amazement, she bobs her head in easy recognition. “I’m Molly Deacon. Lovely to meet you, dear - Jack speaks very highly of you.”

She takes the inspector’s uninjured arm and chivvies him up the steps, clucking maternally over his wounds all the while. Hugh stares at them as they disappear into the house, frozen and flushing with pride.

“Collins!”

Oh, right. He hastily gathers up the inspector’s valise and the hamper. “Coming, sir!”

Hugh can’t say he’s ever devoted much thought to what the Inspector’s home is like. Still, one learns pretty early working as a copper that a house tells you a lot about its inhabitants, and not always in obvious ways. A large but unnaturally neat house could just be the work of very well-trained servants or a housewife who truly enjoys domesticity, but it can also be a sign of ruthless desire for social status or even an obsession with control. A sitting room cluttered with objects can signify tastelessness, vanity, grief, children, or poverty depending on what the objects are. At Wardlow, Miss Fisher has surrounded herself with beautiful art, and while most would probably dismiss that as the extravagances of the idle rich, Hugh remembers a very awkward meal in a French cafe and the expression on her face when the painter fellow had spoken to her. There’s something more there, but he’ll never ask; it’s not something he needs to know. Not every mystery needs to be solved.

After years of working with the man, Hugh had thought he knew Inspector Robinson pretty well. The past week has been something of a surprise, though, so he straightens his shoulders and navigates his cargo through the front door with all the purpose and authority of the Victorian Constabulary, ready to survey the interior for insight with a detective’s eye for detail.

It looks like... a house.

A boringly normal house.

The small sitting room is tidy but shows signs of wear. Not the way Hugh’s mother’s sitting room does - five children and then three grandchildren so far have done a number on the furniture there, the kind that no amount of even the hardest scrubbing can remove. Inspector Robinson’s home just looks comfortably lived-in. The armchairs near the fireplace are visibly molded around a human shape, but not squashed so flat that they’re nearing replacement, and while the fabric is slightly faded it just makes them seem more cozy. An upright piano bearing a sheaf of complicated-looking sheet music stands proudly in one corner. Hugh can tell from the door that the keys are chipped and yellowed with age, but it’s too prominent in the room for the damage to be from neglect. The inspector must enjoy playing to fit music in around his long hours at the station.

The heavily-laden bookshelf is no surprise, of course. Hugh hadn’t really expected anything else from a man who kept a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare in his office. What catches his eye, though, is an old photograph hung in pride of place next to it. It’s a family portrait - a greying man, the spitting image of Inspector Robinson, stands proudly next to his much shorter wife. Their three children had clearly been told to look as serious as possible, and while the eldest, a kind-looking young woman in her late teens, manages it fairly well, the slightly younger daughter is barely hiding a smile. The only son looks to be about eleven or so. His mother has a death grip on his shoulder.

Hugh blinks. It seems both he and the inspector have two older sisters.

“Thank you for carrying those in, dear,” Mrs. Deacon calls, jolting him out of his reverie. “Take the valise upstairs, please, or Jack will try to carry it himself and end up staying with you another week. I’ll take the hamper, and _you,_ sir, will sit nicely down and not say a word about it.”

"And you're sure you refuse to come manage City South, Molly?" Inspector Robinson asks, raising a sardonic eyebrow. He gives no sign of particularly caring about Hugh’s examination of his home. "You ought to teach drill sergeants how to give orders. My solve rates would be through the roof."

"Yes, well, when your children are the age where the dog's got less energy and more sense, you pick it up right quick.”

She _definitely_ reminds Hugh of his Aunt Winnie.

He’s all the way up the stairs before he realizes he has no idea where he’s meant to put the valise. Fortunately, the first doorway he peeks into is clearly a bedroom, and since there’s a stack of novels on the nightstand that are each as thick as his arm, it must be the inspector’s. Hugh deposits the valise at the foot of the bed and quickly retreats, closing the door quietly behind him. It’s one thing to draw conclusions based on the public areas of the house, but a bedroom is a place other people aren’t meant to see. Inspector Robinson has a bed to lay his head in at night, and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

The walls are surprisingly thin. It's easy to make out the inspector and Mrs. Deacon talking as he heads back down the stairs.

"...and I've sent Ben off to the butcher for supper now that you're home."

"Really, Molly, you don't need to."

"Oh, shush. You don't telephone asking us to pack a bag and send you off to the depths of St. Kilda for a week without getting interrogated afterwards and you know it. Olivia is convinced you were taken hostage by pirates and lied about it to spare our delicate sensibilities. That girl's mind, honestly..."

A squeaky floorboard mostly drowns out whatever Inspector Robinson's response is, but it sounds amused.

"Charlie's been in charge of collecting all your post," Mrs. Deacon continues. They're not in the sitting room, but their voices sound very close. The kitchen, maybe? "Taken it very seriously, too."

"Has he? Good lad. I'll have to slip him a biscuit or two next time he and Buster are playing cowboys."

"Oh, I think he'll scrounge for three given how careful he was with that posh letter from England."

Hugh enters the kitchen just in time to see Inspector Robinson straighten so quickly he has to press a hand to his injured ribs at the sudden movement. "Why didn't-"

"Oh, there you are," Mrs. Deacon interrupts, winking at him where the inspector can't see. "Be a dear and fetch the stack of post from Jack's study? Just down the hall."

Hugh smothers a grin. "Of course, ma'am."

"Really, Jack," she continues as he ducks out again, "it's like I hardly know you. Who on earth is writing you letters from a London neighbourhood so fashionable even _I've_ heard of it?"

*****

Dottie is just finishing the latticework on a pie upon his return to Wardlow. Hugh frowns. He hasn’t fully worked out the subtleties of her baking moods, but he knows this one - something is bothering her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Dottie…”

“It’s just…” She sets the pie safely in the oven, then looks up at him pleadingly. “Are you _sure we_ should have let the inspector go home today? He’s still hurt. I don’t like him being all by himself - he’ll try to push himself too soon, and heaven knows he doesn’t eat enough.”

Hugh thinks about how comfortable Inspector Robinson had been joking with his neighbour about a clearly beloved dog. About the novel on the nightstand. About the conversation with Mr. Butler, and how much less hunched the inspector had been the further they’d driven from Wardlow, injured ribs and all. And most of all, about escorting Mrs. Deacon - _"Molly, dear, no need to stand on ceremony"_ \- back to her home to give the inspector some privacy to read his post.

"There was a letter waiting for him when we arrived," he tells her, practically bouncing on his toes. "A thick one. It must have been awfully expensive to send it from England."

"Oh," Dottie says, puzzled. "A - _oh!"_

Her relieved smile is so radiant he has to pull her into a hug, messy apron and all. Dottie is soft and warm beneath his hands, the kitchen smells delightfully of baked goods, and the last of the lingering worry Wardlow has worn like ivy this past week has finally faded away.

“I think he's going to be just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> "It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life." -JRR Tolkien
> 
> This fic would not exist in any form, much less a complete one, without my dear friend and confidante meanderings0ul. The number of times I ranted and wept at her at 3 am when Hugh's voice was impossible to get right is... frankly alarming. She talked me through phrasing complications, plot snags, endless points where the characters just didn't quite feel right, and a hundred other minor catastrophes with constant enthusiasm and willingness to tolerate my dramatics. Thanks to her, what originally started out as a cute little fic idea involving Hugh and Dot aggressively adopting Jack in Phryne's absence became something much more complex and human that helped me really flesh out my idea of a character who is often only a sidekick meant for comic relief in the show and fic alike. This is not the fic I set out to write - it is much better. Thank you, darling.
> 
> Many thanks as well to glamorouspixels for being a great beta and pointing out several rough spots to improve on. As always, any remaining mistakes are my own.


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